Worldly
by MorriganFearn
Summary: Hetalia drabbles of random ideas, and things that I cannot fit into my fics. Mostly fluff and humor, occasionally a little romantic. 13. Leave Nights: France contemplates his place in a brotherly war.
1. Lion

Author's Note: Hi guys. I'm sorry I don't have an _Eight Men_ chapter for you all. I thought I'd post this and a couple of other shorts as a tide-me-over until next week. It's been a long while since I've done any drabbles, but this time I swear that none are over 500 words, and I was very careful with their length.

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**Worldly**

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**01. Lion  
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Greece stared at his sculpture. He looked back at the visitor, who was grinning as though this graffiti was a substantial contribution to the world of art. Behind him, the taller, quieter boy nodded once, as though this was appropriate.

"What did you write?" Greece asked, remembering the previous night.

"Tani and Suetidi rock!" the shorter of the two boys had shed most of the furs that he arrived in, but still was holding that huge axe. "I want more of that wine!"

The tallest boy shook his head. Greece agreed. Last night had been an _experience_.

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**Notes**

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Length: 100 words

Vikings had commerce as far away as Greece, and yes, there is some, supposedly Scandanavian graffiti on a lion sculpture in Athens. Can't you just see pre-teen Denmark, Sweden, and Greece having an absolute party together?

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I hope that I have managed to entertain you. Reviews are welcome as always

~ MF


	2. Attack and Defense

**Worldly**

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**02. Attack and Defense  
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"I am observing," Norway replied, once Japan asked.

The ribbon of steel flowed back into position, as Japan began again, passing through his exercises. "What is there to observe?"

"Movement. Change. I wish to learn."

"Learn what?" As long as Japan knew the full intent, Norway's presence was not worrying.

"You."

The sword swept around in an elegant, defensive arc. An effortless movement that would have blocked a thousand volleys. "Why?"

"You are here. You are showing me the most illuminating characteristic of yourself."

"Which is?" Controlled, beautiful steel sang through another cut to the air.

"How you fight."

Japan brought the sword around, his feet sliding effortlessly in a precise turn. "And this is illuminating?"

"I only learn about people when I see them fight," Norway replied.

The sword glided into the sheath. "Have you seen enough?"

"Every attack is a new opportunity to learn."

"And what has Noruuei-san learned?"

"That you wish to engage me in conversation, and can still run perfectly through your exercises."

"And what have I learned?"

"That I am put off by attempts to converse with me."

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**Notes**

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Length: 200 words

Norway and Japan are so similar at times. It made me wonder how they would interact. Answer: Probably poorly. Norway doesn't do really well with things that he can't yell at.

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I hope that I have managed to entertain you. Reviews are welcome as always

~ MF


	3. Invisible Independence

**Worldly**

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**03. Invisible Independence  
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On the day that he became fully independent, Matthew thought that there would be more recognition. Instead, America forgot, and England looked embarrassed as he patted Canada on the shoulder. France gave him a rose, but France always did that. The Netherlands smiled and waved at him, though, as Matthew walked away from his first father.

Matthew smiled, and waved back, realizing that even if they had forgotten to give him anything, he was still noticed. It was not everything he wanted, but it was better than it had been.

Cuba did not even attack him. Ice cream with Russia and Cuba may not have sounded like the best day to some, but Canada liked it. When he returned to his house, someone had left a lengthy letter in the letter box. Frying some maple flavored sausage as a personal treat, Matthew read the words, which were stripped to the essential requirements of independence, freedom, never knowing borders, never being afraid of what came to your house in the night, what it must mean to be there, in that place, and how his whole life had lead him there. It was a letter addressed to him, Canada. He cried once.

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**Notes**

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Length: 200 words

Canada's constitution was not recognized by the Queen until August 14th, 1982 (Quebec did not recognize it, causing problems after the Queen had accepted the constitution), which puts this drabble smack in the middle of the Cold War. As for who sent the letter, well, it might have been the missing Alfred, given the language of Truth, Justice and Freedom used, or people who know my little fluffy weakness can probably guess why I'm situating this during the Cold War. As long as artists used their skills for the glory of the Soviet cause, the Soviet Union had little against them, and often writers and musicians had more access and influence than the average schmoe. So, someone from there could conceivably send a letter to Canada.

Of course, he'd have to be able to remember Canada's name.

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I hope that I have managed to entertain you. Reviews are welcome as always

~ MF


	4. World Filter

**Worldly**

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**04. World Filter  
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"No wonder your life is messed up," Arthur tapped the bow of Alfred's glasses against the page that he had fallen asleep on. "You can only 'get' European history asleep, with your glasses off."

Alfred came awake with a yell, grabbing for his wire rims. "Careful you tea drinking idiot! You might break them."

Arthur, usually the serious one, was not interested in excessive displays on a fine May morning. "Prat. Much as I might wish to, I doubt I could break Texas by using it as a pointer."

Alfred remained cradling his glasses, issuing soothing noises. "They're not Texas."

Arthur stared. He had thought—hadn't Alfred said as much at that NATO meeting in 2001? It was the only way he could remember the Spanish infested place. Texas perched on Alfred's nose, and Nantucket rose from his head, asking to be tugged. Not that Arthur would do that. He was not a pervert, unlike some nations. France. "What, then?"

"Um," Alfred had gone red. "Er, the left one is the Executive Branch, and the right lens is the Legislative, and, well, the Judicial just wraps all the way around, and keeps them from crashing into each other, all while balanced on my nose."

England thought about this. He thought about it hard. "You've been using your glasses as a mnemonic device and personification for your own government?"

"Yes!" Angry defiance for a concept no European would ever think of grasping, because it was _backwards_. At least he saw the danger in letting his glasses get broken. "Keep your limey hands off them."

"You are the most special fool I know, Alfred. Now go back to sleep," England stretched out on the grass, and let the clouds pass overhead.

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**Notes**

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Length: 300 words

I personally think that it's a great mnemonic device. Also, lazy Arthur makes me happy. As for NATO and 2001, that's another brush with recent history that I have political opinions on, and probably should not bring up in polite society or fanfic.

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I hope that I have managed to entertain you. Reviews are welcome as always

~ MF


	5. Afternoon

**Worldly**

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**05. Afternoon  
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Sunlight languidly flowed into the small living room. It fell on a large blond man wearing a studious expression on his face, and chewing the end of a pencil. Curled on the couch, another blond turned a page in his book.

"Norge?" the request was practically a purr.

Immediately, Norway went on guard. No response considered the best defense, the blond tried to lose himself in the ecological reports of the last ten years.

Another purr, edging into a whine. "_Please_?"

"No. Get Arthur."

"But I don't want him to know that it's hard!"

Silence reigned for long minutes. Then delighted scratching. Norway stole a glance at the coffee table. Denmark looked up, beaming in pride. "Took care of it on my own!"

Norway returned his nose to the fascinating breakdown of alluvial soil samples. More silence. Then: "Alright, what was it?"

"Eleven letters, ends in 's' and describes a certain Norwegian," and there was no way Denmark could be _that_ dense. A gleeful smirk had taken up residence in his eyes. "Tempestuous."

More silence, this time filled with all the various ways that Norway could attack Denmark without proving the point. "That cannot be the clue."

"It is."

Norway settled back with his neatly bound light reading. "I'll kill Arthur before next Sunday's edition is printed, then."

Putting down _The Guardian_, Denmark started to plan how he was going to get the next country wiped off the map.

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**Notes**

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Length: 250 words

This is more a personal joke on my limited vocabulary when it comes to writing. I assure you, I'm very verbose in real life. I just noticed in all the emotionally charged war scenes that I was writing for _Eight Men_ fury was coming up a lot when writing Norway, so I tried thinking of other words, and tempestuous came up. Which is potentially accurate, just Norway would hate that word being applied to him, we all know it. And then I would be dead. Plus, I needed a bit of gen fluff. Actually, I needed a _lot_ of gen fluff after writing Ivan, unhappy Sweden, and Norway all in a row.

Also note that _The Guardian_'s crossword puzzle is the most murderous, painful thing on the planet. Trust Arthur to invent a torture involving words that will make you return to it, and beg for more. I'm not a crossword fan, and this beast pretty much sums up the reason why. I think Denmark would only take it on if Arthur challenged him.

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I hope that I have managed to entertain you. Reviews are welcome as always

~ MF


	6. Steven's Crowning

**Worldly**

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**06. Steven's Crowning  
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Valentines' Day means flowers. They are bright red, gorgeous, and stripped of thorns, which is how Hungary knows that France is not responsible. France loves the full beauty of roses. For a while she accepts the flowers every year from her secret admirer, who she knows wants to remain secret. As long as she knows who it is, she is perfectly happy to keep up the pretense.

Turkey, ever the gloating gentleman, gives her a bag of the beans needed for his famous coffee every year that ends in 2. Prussia somehow manages to sneak chocolates onto her kitchen table _every_ 15th of March. Even years that he can't write long letters about how awesome he is because they both can see the lie screaming through the uniform he loves and hates far too clearly—Once he was there, his feet up, and the chocolates on a plate as the red eyes darted crazed into the corner, and he told her to eat the chocolates quickly, because he had to escort her to Russia for a little talk—he always manages to leave her chocolates. He also gives her divorce presents in October, because he would not be Prussia if he did not make his compliments backhanded.

Every year on Christmas Day Hungary finds a bouquet of red flowers and a lone Apfelkuchen on her door step. One year she opens her door before her admirer can finish placing his gift. Austria, going red in the rain, stammers empty worded for a moment, before he can find his voice. "L-l-lehetőség van sch-s-szeretni valakit anélkül, hogy tudnánk, hogyan mondjam el nekik a s-szeretet."

Hungary laughs, extending a hand. "Come inside, Roderich. How long have you been practicing that?"

"About a century," he admits, and allows her to lead him in.

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**Notes**

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Length: 300 words

The Siege of Eger in 1552 was supposed to be an easy victory for the Ottoman Empire against the Hungarian forces in Eger, which would then allow the Ottomans to have a solid base from which to invade Vienna, and other rich Hapsburg lands. Turns out that a town of angry Hungarians is a force to be reckoned with. After over a month of brutal fighting The Empire had to go back home with its tail between its legs. Then the people of Eger hired some mercenaries to defend the town in case the Ottomans returned. They did, and the mercenaries surrendered.

The 15th of March was the first day of the Hungarian Revolution against Hapsburg rule in 1848. The Austro-Hungarian Empire came to an end in October 1918, although the treaty that formally reduced the Empire to separate countries based on ethnicity had been signed in July.

Legend goes that King Steven, the first Catholic Hungarian King was crowned by the Pope in 1000 on Christmas Day. He actually had been acknowledged King in what was Hungary before this, but this is the date of his official recognition by the outside world. I've always thought of this as Hungary's birthday, imagining that she sort of had to choose one after the fact of her birth.

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I hope that I have managed to entertain you. Reviews are welcome as always

~ MF


	7. Red Beard

**Warnings:** Fail!HRE failing at keeping Italia's interest, or putting the choir boy attire together with any sort of proper gender. Even when you're winning you haven't got a clue, or a hope at smoothness.

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**Worldly**

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**07. Red Beard**

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The Holy Roman Empire stares, looking around the battle field. He did it! He did it! His black hat firmly on his head, he is now the Holy Roman Empire, the inevitable conglomeration of the Germanic tribes, and the leader of Christendom. Well, minus the Pope, of course. Yeah. The Pope.

He wishes that there was a breeze of some sort because the Italian heat is oppressive. Gazing in satisfaction at the broken, twisted bodies once more, he spots the delicate lady of the land in her little altar boy's attire picking through the battle field. "Hey, Italia! Are you ready to give your land to me? Hahahahaha!" That does not come out the way he anticipated (the refined flowery phrases he had planned completely desert him), but no fixing that now.

She looks up, blinking those jewel eyes. "Veh, mmm, no?"

"No!" The empire is incensed.

Furiously, he runs to her, and grabs the tiny hand in his own. It is very, very warm in Italy. He drags her, despite protests, to the forge, where his leader sits repairing leather armor. "See?" the little blond waves an imperious hand, sweeping the camp. "See how grand it is! This is a man's world. This is my strength. You will join with that strength! I will use my knights to protect you!"

Italia has fixed her gaze on his leader, and the Holy Roman Empire thinks that perhaps he has won the final victory. "Oooh. His beard is red," the girl giggles, tears unshed in those bright eyes, her hand slipping from the Empire's. "Veh. Barbarossa! I have to go back and pray for the humans. See you later, Holy Roman Empire!"

She waves, and is gone. It is really very hot in Italy.

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**Notes**

Length: 300 words

Frederik Barbarossa was the First Holy Roman Emperor, coming to the throne 1152. There had been some German kings (i.e. the strongest men in their respective area of raiding an pillaging) around before him, doing things like getting into Crusades that were doomed to failure. Before you judge too harshly, it was everybody's hobby in the 12th century. Now we care about tweenie pop stars. Has anything really changed? After getting the German throne, he decided that being King just wasn't enough. He went to the Pope, and asked to be crowned Emperor. He had an awesome name for his awesome empire all picked out, and plans for the dumb pagans running around, oh, and getting rid of all the other kings that could lay claim to Germanic fame. The Pope said 'Good. Go convert those pagans in Lombardy.' This was Northern Italy in modern day, but at the time, this was basically all of Italy except for Rome and Silly, which were part of the Byzantine Empire. Frederick went out, converted it, and came back to the Pope, saying 'hey, I want my Empire now. With the Epic Hat of leadership, if you please.' The Pope, thinking this was a little fast, and not liking Germans all that much, for whatever reason, starts thinking he's had a bit of a bad deal on his hands, and so begins centuries of political and military maneuvering (I.e. the Monastic Order of Teutonic Knights, which was his creation, and back in the day, you did not want these fellows clomping around in your flower beds) between the Holy Roman Empire and the Pope for control over Christianity.

The point of all of this was that the Italians gave this guy the name of Red Beard, or Barbarossa, as he is officially known. Ah, Italia, the HRE will take anything you give him.

On the fail as to flowery language, there are a lot of German jokes about their own language. One of them goes thusly: When he is in love, every German has the word crafting abilities of an English man. In this happy state, a German has the drive and cunning of a Frenchman. His passion burns as warm and tenderly as a Spaniard. Physically, he is as loving as an Italian. And then he opens his mouth, and his own harsh language makes everything he wants to say to his beloved sound like a demand for money. Which really does explain quite a lot about Prussia and Germany. Austria's the only one who's got it down. Switzerland is neutral on the whole affair (if you think German jokes are mean to their own language, go look up some of the ones that they have about the Swiss. And no, the Swiss!Italian and Swiss!French won't save Vash), and Liechtenstein counters even the inability with love poetry by being utterly sweet and filled with pink.

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Thank you for reading.

~ MF


	8. Tulip

**Author's Note**: Based on a lot of research that I've been doing that I'll never be able to fit into _Eight Men_. Sadly. Why must you be so complicated, Netherlands? (Answer: because you know I love complicated cookies). Set in 1940-ish.

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**Worldly**

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**08. Tulip  
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He is reading a newspaper. Muddy boots resting on a table, and scarf dangling in frayed ends, he is reading a newspaper, and doesn't look up when she enters.

He turns a page after a minute, and then closes his reading material, placing it neatly by the radio. "To what do I own the pleasure?" His Dutch is lilting, like the waterways. His voice growls with the soil of the land.

The Queen inclines her head. "I wanted to thank you for joining the fleet. England could not ask for better friends."

He raises a serious eyebrow. "My sister would have killed me if I didn't offer the help, my Queen. Besides, tit for tat, Arthur absolved the debt from the blockade by taking in our refugees, and now he'll owe me again."

A frown, and pursing of lips. "You rarely call me that."

"You've earned it. I was a little suspicious after you brought that little Nazi in, but you want me to be free, and I won't argue with that."

Queen Wilhelmina nods, wondering yet again why her difficult country has to be so roundabout in his bluntness. Of all the nations that she has met, and she has met many, only her nation has ever had the casual disrespect of a merchant sailor for the whole of their acquaintance. She can either agree with him, or not, and they will both go their own ways.

He finally removes his boots from the table. "You're doing a good job, you know. I can't say I've been impressed by my royalty for a long time."

"Even America is—respectful."

He shrugs, and reaches for the pipe next to the tobacco tin. It's an old habit that makes his muscles move, because they both know that with rationing he does not have any shreds of leaves to his name. "America doesn't actually have to deal with you people in the day-to-day. Anyway, I have to head back east. Even if Kiku is going to take Indonesia, he will have to face me while he does. Hah. Colonial powers."

She wonders at that, but then the dealings of nations among themselves have always been slightly confusing. "How many fronts can you fight on at once?"

His eyes, which have always confused her, as they are one of the few shades of green that she cannot instantly place within her realm, stare at her thoughtfully. "How many do you think I can?"

"Wherever there are enemies, certainly."

The Netherlands smiles, heading to a blue and white vase filled with tulips of all colors. "Then I am there, your majesty," he picks up the bouquet, and rolls it, dripping wet, in the newspaper. Grabbing an orange petaled cup with a blackly red heart from the cluster, he hands its green stalk to her. "As a sign of favor. Good bye."

He leaves. The Queen, her duty discharged, heads back to work.

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**Notes**

Length: 500 words

So, the Netherlands and monarchy have always had a bit of a rocky relationship. I've talked a little bit about it in _Eight Men_, and I don't really want to go more deeply into it without starting from the beginning, the Eighty Years War. Long story short: It's been a long road for Neth, between not really having a united monarchy to revolution (yet another example of history!cannon NetherlandsxFrance, you know you want to support it!) to strong monarchy, to blah monarchy to Queen Wilhelmina, who was a really epic lady.

Really epic. She led Netherlands through both World Wars (I realize that Netherlands' actions in the first were less than stellar, but this lady was brilliant), was known as the Soldier's Queen, and had a habit of going out to inspect her troops without prior notice, so she had a good grasp of what her army was capable of (i.e. it was small and poorly equipped, she wanted to change this). When her country was invaded in WWII she ended up going around to other countries and trying to get support for standing up to Germany from certain adamantly neutral countries. She broadcast radio announcements on Radio Oranje for the Dutch people, who ended up sneaking off to basements and attics to listen to the illegal broadcasts, and her image was banned in occupied Netherlands (consequently, a picture of the queen became a symbol of the Resistance). There's lots of other cool stuff that she's done, and anyone serious about the Netherlands/Canada pairing should know about her "thank you" gift to Canada for helping the Royal family, making certain that her granddaughter was actually a Dutch citizen (Princess Juliana gave birth to her daughter in Ottowa, and Canadian citizenship laws don't follow bloodlines, which could have been a sticky wicket for the royalty), and you know, Canada _liberating_ the Netherlands.

Anyway, Netherlands was invaded in May 1940, and capitulated on the 15th. This is better than Denmark's two hour record, but the Nazis were quick to install their own government, unlike in Denmark. Netherlands and the German occupation needs more fics written about it, since, well, it's a complex topic. Tons of Dutch citizens ended up fleeing to England, and the Dutch Navy was sort of in a weird position, where it followed the dictates of the Queen, and was at the disposal of England (many of the boats at Dunkirk were Dutch, or captained by members of the navy), defended it's colonies in the East Indies (where Japan thrashed it, often helped by the people of Indonesia, who hated the Dutch as much as they hated the Japanese. Nothing's ever easy for Netherlands), and let Dutch merchants sell to every side.

As for the blockade mentioned: In WWI England blockaded trade to Germany, which lead to the starvation that helped the Germans decide that they hated the war, and needed a violent change in government. Fun times for the German State. Unfortunately, the Dutch, which depended on the navy for food, England ended up blockading them, too. Yeah, it's not fun to be the nearest neighbor of the 'bad guys.'

As for the Nazi comment, Princess Julianna's husband was rumored to have Nazi sympathies. He was a German prince, and coming to age as politics in defeated Germany turned really sour, and this tended to be the case of young men of a certain stamp. His mother-in-law was the prime motivator, and arranged the marriage. There was a bit of a cloud hanging over the head of the royal family after that.

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Thank you for reading.

~ MF


	9. Foreign

**Worldy**

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****09. Foreign  
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Japan covered a smile by the simple expediency of staring into the water of the harbor. The moon caught the gentle waves, bringing the natural light of silver to mix with the civilized lantern light of gold. One thousand summers could come and go, and he would never see anything quite as ridiculous as one of these Westerners in the clothing of his people.

The flower bearing nation coughed a little, and politely looked into the sea as well. "So. The wall—,"

"A necessity. I do hope that my apology will be acceptable, and give no offense," Japan remarked, knowing that he should not interrupt, but not wishing to get into that discussion.

A party of women, well guarded, were admitted through the gates by the watchman. Their voices were subdued, for all that Japan could feel the nervous chatter in his bones. Was it the foreigners who waited within the protective walls of Dejima, or nightly trade that would be with the rich and powerful, whether their eyes were round or delicate?

His eastern silks fitting poorly on a frame far too broad for a decent nation, this strange Westerner, who easily betrayed his own for a little profit, turned his head after the dark shining hair of the humans. Unlike Portugal, whatever passed for thought did not flow to this man's lips as soon as it had been created. Japan risked a glance at the craggy face. Their eyes did not meet, because the Dutchman's weird gaze was still fixed on the gates.

At length, he shifted his weight, making the bridge between island and the rest of Nagasaki creak. "I wish they were not as unhappy about this as they are."

Japan remained impassive. It was not his place to comment on the distaste of debtors and whores paying their way through life. "Humans have their desires." Even Western ones.

A nod. Netherlands turned once more to the city. Japan could practically hear the calculations happening in his head. But stability was his friend. The Dutch wanted stability. Profits were high in times of stability. Religious uprising was not their goal. Change was not their goal. Just profit.

The Netherlands was not wearing his impractical clothing, and instead had donned the Nipponese robes, given to him in something like a joke. Japan had seen immediately that this was the kind of man who would be more at home in the mountains, and he would manage to make any clothing look horribly casual at first encounter. Now wrapped in yellow silk leaves and clouds, Japan almost wanted to laugh at how, by force of physique, he had to leave the collar as open as those courtesans.

What did Hollanda have that Japan would want to buy, though?

With the tolling of the hours, the Westerner began to walk toward the gate, aware of the rules that governed their new relationship. But for a second he paused, and looked over his shoulder. He had Western customs ingrained into the very fabric of what he was, and so he intently sought Japan's eyes. A lantern swung, making green blaze like emerald and topaz for a second, and the skin bared on the shoulder picked up a glow of warmth for a second.

"Thank you for letting me look at the sea from the bridge," an almost wicked smile broke across the Netherlands' face, fleeing quickly. "You should come have tea with me. If you would like some."

Kiku smiled, and nodded, using the motion to tear his eyes away. "I am deeply grateful for the invitation."

Proper manners could yet be taught. The courtesans were probably smiling secretively, and using their eyes to lure out the least repugnant foreigner after their charms. Did it matter who sympathized with whom? Nations had their desires. Even Eastern ones.

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Length: 643 (not perfect drabble, but it's too short to be a oneshot...)

So, in 1637, there was an uprising of Christianized Japanese against the Tokugawa Shogunate. The rebellion was crushed by the troops of the shogunate and the Dutch. Part of this might have been because these Japanese were technically Catholic, and the Dutch didn't care what happened to them. There is also the fact that uprisings disrupt Trade, and in 1637 the Netherlands was on the 70th year of the Eighty Years War, and trade was a good thing, especially far from Europe because that was a freaking mess. Didn't people understand that when the Swedes marched across the fertile grain fields, those sons of bitches (our allies, but nevertheless, dour sons of bitches) they _marched_, and things did not grow in their wake. Anyway, by helping put down the rebellion, the Dutch earned a place in the hearts of the Japanese in charge. All Europeans were kicked out of Japan except for the Dutch. Suddenly the East Indies company had exclusive access to a market that returned about 50% profit.

The Japanese, on the other hand, felt that the Dutch were too much in the pocket of the Hiroda Clan, and they wanted to get the power moved, so the physically relocated the Dutch to an island in the Nagasaki Harbor where they used to keep the Portuguese. The Dutch response was something like: "We still get to make money off you and your goods, right?" The Japanese said that this was perfectly acceptable within reason. The Dutch agreed, and then coughed, and asked how, when confined to Dejima island, were they going to get the basic necessities like food and drink, and, um, well, you know, with the ladies. The Japanese, always understanding about the, um, you know, with the ladies, picked out certain members of the 'tea house' populace, and had them go attend to Dutch needs. Yeeeeeeeah. Yeah. I could go into the circumstances that lead people to become tea house ladies, and the intersectionality of that system, but it's depressing and would make the author's note long.

Anyway, cultural mixing started happening as the 1700s rolled on, and the Japanese decided that the Dutch were useful conduits of information about the West, and then things were pretty hunky dory until WWII. Man. Talk about a 'Dear John' letter. Indonesia, I'm sorry that your life has been made of suck.

~ MF


	10. A Proposal of Marriage

**Worldy**

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**10. Proposal of Marriage  
**

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What he hears is "I want to sleep with you, and do things sisters should not do."

What she means is "I want to be with the person I love the most, and make him as happy as he has made me."

Ruined past knowing in the ashes of history, they have lost much of whoever they once were. Maybe they never were those different strange people. Admiring strength, and kindness, he sees these attributes in everyone else in the world and she only sees them in him. Looking inside they do not see any of these qualities.

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Length: 100 words

Just some character work for Belarus and Russia as I work on cleaning up Chapter 7 of Eight Men (no, my pretties, you will never see it :P)

~ MF


	11. Shaking

**Worldy**

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**11. Shaking  
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Curtains tremble as Germany and Prussia walk into the lounge of their Brussels hotel. Ludwig, knowing from his brother that full knowledge of terrain and position is the first necessity, carefully angles his broad shoulders to block the window from his smaller brother's view. But Prussia, once so sharp and powerful, is just a man now, and sees things as men do, so he does not notice shaking curtains, and proceeds to flop down on the nearest sofa and demand a newspaper and beer.

"Gilbert," Ludwig growls, keeping his voice steady, disapproving, the actor's part of the responsible brother, "neither I nor the hotel staff are your slaves. If you want the sports scores and a beer, there is a bar on the first floor with both."

"Yeahhhhh, but Belgium's there, and she's so unfriendly."

"Perhaps if you did not claim that cats were put on this earth to be kicked, attempt to steal her hair ribbon and start singing old songs about how fun it is to conquer Belgium," Ludwig tries to keep his cool. Prussia does not mean anything by it. Gilbert lives under the delusion that he is funny. And he has a supreme disliking for cats.

"Oooh! I wonder if she's heard the one about how pretty Belgian girls are—," and Gilbert leaps over the sofa arm, and sprints toward the stairs.

Since he has not opted for the elevator, and Germany knows that the Netherlands also happens to be in the bar, along with the ever strong America, Germany allows Gilbert to leave. It does Prussia good to get into small fights every now and again before being pulled to safety.

Walking over to the curtain Germany simply thrusts the cloth aside, and stares down at Italy, who is trying to look innocent. The big eyes imitate an eager spaniel's and Italy's hands twist behind his back.

"Veeeee, what a surprise Doitsu! I can't—Imagine seeing you here."

"You heard Gilbert on the stairs, didn't you?"

"Er, he _is_ rather loudly interested in this hockey thing," Italy acts as though he has never screamed at the top of his voice when discussing the merits of pasta. But Prussia on any sport that captures his fancy is nothing new.

Germany shifts his weight forward, crossing his arms. This is not a nice thing to do, and he knows that Italy will try to cower back into the wall, but sometimes even Germany has had enough. "It's a good thing he hasn't seen the news, don't you think?"

Italy makes a choked little noise in the back of his throat. "He hasn't?"

"But _I_ have."

Italy shrinks even further. He will soon blend into the carpet at this rate. Germany continues, standing very still, to press his looming presence forward, impressing upon Feliciano that he needs to control his Prime Minister, never mind the fact that it should be Romano's job. Romano never gets anything done. Blue eyes cold, the personification of Germany waits for Italy's body language to tell him—the curl droops, and abruptly Ludwig turns away to sit on the couch.

"I'm re-really s-s-sorrrrrrry," Italy gasps out as the the pressure is removed. "I had no idea he'd ever—,"

On the couch Germany relaxes, and begins to chuckle. This might be the worst part of all for Feliciano, who's large eyes grow larger, and his mouth drops open. Noting this through his laughter, Ludwig wonders if his attitude warrants this much surprise. Certainly he had played the part of the strong angry nation just a few seconds ago, but it isn't as though he has turned into one of America's alien fantasies. Even Germany has a sense of humor.

"Doitsu?" Italy begins cautiously.

"Well, I can't imagine _any_ German _wanting_ to fuck your Prime Minister," Ludwig finally manages, before breaking into more chuckles.

Italy blinks at least three times, before he too begins to laugh, and collapses on the sofa with Germany. "We both have un—un—less than lovely bosses, don't we?"

Germany nods, slumping into the softness, just as Italy's smiling head lands on his thigh. Italy is smiling, mouth open, teeth white flashes against deep red velvet. Germany's urge to smooth his hair and curl back properly is interrupted by the ding of the elevator.

"Yo! Germany, there's a bit of a situation in the lobby with your brother and Romano," America boomed out, shattering Feliciano's quiet laugh.

"What happened!" the brunette's head shoots up from the friendly lap, and Germany grits his teeth against private visions of making America run punishment laps until even he dropped from exhaustion. And no hamburgers!

America scratched his head in confusion. "Well, um, Belgium had Prussia bent backward over the bar downstairs, and the Netherlands was looking for the metallic stirring things, and Prussia happened to see the TV, and next thing I know, he's tearing out of Belgium's grip yelling that he's going to murder Romano. Well, Romano was walking by at the time, and Prussia chased him into the lobby, and Romano was protected by the desk clerk, but when I was trying to get Prussia to calm down I might have thrown him into the ornamental fountain, and Romano laughed, and, well, last thing I knew Prussia's trying to climb the curtains while Romano's hanging on to that curtain rod that's 12 feet off the ground. Then Poland arrived, and said he'd handle things, and that was nice of him, so I thought I'd get you!"

Germany just sighs. "Thank you. I'll go down and fix this."

* * *

Length: Lots of words

Recently the infamous Berlusconi was caught on tape saying that Angela Merkel, Germany's Chancellor, was an "unfuckable lard ass." I haven't found a confirming report on the BBC, but the Romano-esque language spawned this short that is going nowhere.

Also, how many bet that Poland's ideal of handling things involves flicking spit balls at Prussia?

~ MF


	12. Small and Big

Author's Note: Blegh. I clearly have not been on FF.N in long enough, as all of the formatted things that I was saving have been deleted. Phooey. On the bright side, Wordly's format, unlike Eight Men, is fairly replicable.

* * *

**Wordly**

* * *

**12. Small and Big**

* * *

On occasion you have to make small things into the big things.

Feliciano smiles to himself every time Ludwig washes his hands. Germany turns on the tap, and lets it run just long enough for the water to scald. Then he pushes his hands in all at once. They rub and stroke another another, moving with, what Italy imagines is, a swimmer's grace. Then they erupt from the stream. The soap bar is picked up. Is rubbed firmly three times. Is returned at the perfect angle to the tray each time. The hands sink back into the faucet's gush. The lather is rinse away. The red wet skin slams down on the knob of the sink, and turns it smartly off. Without ceremony a towel is found, and Italy smiles through every repetition.

Germany does many small things, but he cannot do the smallest thing of all.

Romano will criticize when Germany cooks dinner. He stands in the kitchen, leaning against the door frame, his arms folded, and a sneer on his face. Feliciano is embarrassed by his older brother during those moments, and embarrassed by his silly, feckless younger self. The one that ran around trying to show Germany how to put his soul into cooking.

Germany cooks in the same way he washes his hands. Every movement is deliberate, regimented, thoughtful. He knows the recipes. He repeats the recipes. The preparation is perfect. The result is perfect. Romano sneers that it is the same, every time. That the meals have nothing but a mechanical failure for a heart.

Germany accepts the rebuke without comment. Perhaps he even agrees. But Feliciano knows, every time salad is placed on the table, candles are lit, and wine is selected, the wary, cautious look in Germany's eyes as he glances ever so breifly at Feliciano is different. Each time it gets a little warmer, a little more lovely. Germany just keeps his heart carefully inside himself, rather than pouring passion over pasta. That is where his heart belongs, and Feliciano is pleased that Germany wants to share it in glances over dinner.

* * *

Length: 350 words

Just some GerIta fluff. Nothing big. Hope you enjoyed.

MF


	13. Leave Nights

Author's Note: Blegh. I clearly have not been on FF.N in long enough, as all of the formatted things that I was saving have been deleted. Phooey. On the bright side, Wordly's format, unlike Eight Men, is fairly replicable.

* * *

**Wordly**

* * *

**13. Leave Nights  
**

* * *

Leave nights were strange for nations. Sometimes they were allowed leave with their units, but as the days lengthened and 1915 rolled onward, command kept them longer and longer on the battle field, only giving them leave with each other.

"Feels vaguely disconnected, no?" Francis inquired, leaning against the wooden wall in Rheims, once a laundry, and now converted into a small hospital. On clear nights, he could hear the gunfire from the front, but it was getting to be that he couldn't tell which part of him was being attacked. There was too much pain, too much mud.

Matthew, looking at the black sky, gave Francis a wan smile. It was still unnerving to see how much the boy had grown. He was not even a boy any more. Was one war all it took these days? Even young Gilbert had matured his way into the 1700s. It felt as though Francis had greeted an awkward adolescent off the ships, turned around, and then Canada was a sad faced man wearing none of his scars on the outside. "Everyone will get their leave in due time, France, sir."

A raucous call broke the morbid connotations of leave. France looked towards the pub as Arthur and his darker Irish brother tumbled out, cursing, laughing, pulling shoving each other in serious mock battle. Francis shook his head. "We are supposed to be on the same side."

Matthew turned his head slightly, watching the display, as Arthur kicked Ireland in the stomach. "I suppose it all makes sense in their heads. Brothers are like that, you know."

France did not. Looking at the faint smile on Canada's face, thinking about the sides of the war as families for a second, thinking about the British Isles, and their teaming brood of siblings, and the Dominions, and their forced Imperial brotherhood, and far away, over the lines of war and time, the Kingdom of Prussia enthusiastically wrestling with a little boy who would grow into his overlord. France took up sky watching again. "No, Big Brother doesn't quite understand."

* * *

Length: 350 words

During WWI, leave differed for each side. In general, although this varied widely, the British policy kept regiments on the front lines only about two weeks, before retiring them to the reserves for a month, and then retiring them for a two week leave, and then beginning the cycle over again. Of course, in areas where fighting was hard, the trench cycle was broken, and men could be in active duty on the front for weeks and weeks. Either way, however, the German soldiers did not have the same luxury. They served their term at the front for upwards of a month, the theory being that soldiers who were experienced did not die as often. I don't have figures on the French rotations or lack thereof.

MF


End file.
